


One Thousand Blessings

by MarieQuiteContrarie (SeaStar1330)



Series: Morning Glory [6]
Category: Macelle - Fandom, Once Upon a Time (TV), The Tournament (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anyelle, Christmas, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Foster Care, Gen, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Macelle - Freeform, Married Life, Orphans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 03:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaStar1330/pseuds/MarieQuiteContrarie
Summary: Catching a thief red-handed two days before Christmas is the last thing Joseph MacAvoy expects headed into the holidays with his wife, Belle, especially when the robber turns out to be a little boy with blue eyes and tousled blonde curls he can’t seem to forget. Meanwhile, seven-year-old orphan Nicholas Parrish is hanging onto the dregs of hope for a Merry Christmas, and Belle has a bright idea—and a Christmas secret—of her own.





	One Thousand Blessings

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Morning Glory, my 2017 May Day Menagerie story.
> 
> Many of you have asked to see more Belle and Joseph. Maybe you're thinking "Really, Marie, a Christmas story in January?" I've been planning this story for ages. I'm thinking this will be four chapters. 
> 
> Rating has the potential to go up, probably to an M.

**DECEMBER 23rd: STORYBROOKE SODA AND SUNDRIES**

The slap of Joseph’s hand against the front door is sharp and cold.

His palm stings with the contact, clammy skin sticking to the icy surface and his breath fogs the glass, obstructing his view of snow-covered Main Street despite the morning sunshine. His other hand shoots out to wrap his knuckles around the door handle, locking his arms around a four-foot boy with a suspicious lump in his coat.

Unless the kid ducks back into the store and heads into the back where Clark, the pharmacist, is standing guard by the employee door, there’s no way out.

Joseph looks down, pinning the back of a curly blonde head with a solemn stare. “What are you doing, son?”

“Uh, nothin.” For a moment, the boy’s shoulders slump. Then he turns his head, smoky blue eyes flashing with defiance, his ragged breath fogging the glass alongside Joseph’s. 

Joseph frowns, his fingers cupping a small elbow in a coat too thin and threadbare for a Storybrooke winter. He slides his hand upward, gripping a surprisingly meaty bicep for one so young, and gently takes hold of his shoulders to steer him back toward the inside of the store. There is resistance—sneakered feet squeak against the tile floor, but after a moment the boy relents and turns around. 

“What?” the kid asks, playing dumb. His eyes flicker briefly over Joseph’s face before hitting the floor.

Joseph tilts the boy’s chin up to examine his heart-shaped face—full cheeks, a jaunty chin, a smattering of freckles. He’s a sturdy little thing, looks to be around six or seven. Not that he would really know. He doesn't know anything about children.

What he does know, is it’s a rare occurrence to find a thief in a small, affluent town like Storybrooke. Back home in the squalid city of Middlesbrough, north England, where he’d been raised and trained in the priesthood, catching a kid pilfering cigarettes or booze to use or sell off would have been typical.

But here in Storybrooke, most family units were intact, small business thrived, and people had the means to care for their own and share with others. Even the scant handful of children who live at the convent with the sisters have full bellies and enough supervision to keep them from running through the streets and making trouble.

As for Joseph, departing England also meant abandoning his vocation and leaving a life of loneliness behind. Last year, through a series of unbelievable events and thanks to a peculiar angel named Merlin, he’d become the owner of this convenience store where he used to work stocking shelves, and somehow been blessed to marry Belle French, town librarian and love of his life.

 _Belle_. Thoughts of her draw an instant smile to his face and his cheeks heat with pleasure. His wife has such a way with people; she would know exactly what to do with a little boy who was caught stealing. Joseph imagines her now,  crouching down until she was right at this child's level, her eyes sparkling with mirth. She would introduce herself, then lead him away by the hand to read a children’s book featuring the perfect moral at the end of the story. After a scant handful of well-meaning questions, the child would fall in love with Belle's natural curiosity and the musical trill of her laugh, and all the details of his life would come tumbling out in a jumble of words and emotions.

At least, that’s how it had been for Joseph.

But Belle isn’t here. The boy is stuck with him—an awkward ex-priest-turned-shopkeeper—and his relative inexperience with children. Since their marriage, he and Belle had talked about the possibility of children in the future, but it was more of a five-year plan, a distant goal relegated to “someday.” For now, his knowledge is limited to the little ones he sees tugging on their parents’ coats in the store, asking for candy at the checkout, or their shy smiles of gratitude and sticky fingers when he serves them a dish of ice cream. There are also the occasional teenagers who sit at the soda fountain counter, sipping milkshakes and chattering with their friends in a language only they understand, iPhones plastered to their faces.

While he’d been a priest, he was usually too drunk to even notice the children. Oh, he’d christened a baby now and then, but young ones never darkened the door of his confessional or came to him for advice. And the parish was too small and the congregation too disgusted with their drunken pastor to send altar boys in for training. What words of love or comfort would he have offered, anyway? What life skills could he have taught, other than to demonstrate the quickest way to the bottom of the bottle?

 _None of that now._ The still, small whisper of God fills his mind, delivering the peace he craves. _Those days are over, Joseph, and you are a new creation in Me._

 _Then give me the words now, Lord,_ he begs silently. _I don’t know what to say or do._

He rakes a hand through his hair and refocuses on the boy, who’s now standing with arms crossed over his chest, scrutinizing him like he’s grown a third eyeball.

Joseph knows one thing; the boy picked the worst time of day to make his move. It’s December 23rd — just two days until Christmas. For the first time in several weeks the store is quiet, a mid-morning lull in the bustle of the season. It’s strange, really; an hour ago he’d been selling boxes of candy and small toys faster than Granny’s Diner sold stacks of flapjacks during the weekend breakfast rush. Now the place is eerily quiet, and the silence gives Joseph space to think.

What drove this poor kid to rob his store on a Thursday morning? Is it a childish prank, or does a deeper need lurk beneath the surface?

Sympathy floods him, along with a sense of calm. He may not be great with advice or problem-solving, but the Lord has blessed him with compassion and discernment, as well as a keen listening ear.

Joseph drops his eyes from the boy’s face, nodding at the large bulge in his threadbare jacket that’s tucked securely beneath his little arms, his left elbow nearly poking through the sleeve of his coat. On the security monitor, he’d watched him tuck several items against his chest before cornering him at the front door. He should have stopped him sooner, he supposes, but he is puzzled by the odd collection of items he’d chosen. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

The boy’s gaze shifts, a well-worn navy and grey running shoe poking at a bit of melting snow on the floor. “We’re …we’re on a field trip.”

“Oh, a field trip, is it?”

“Yep.” The kid nods vigorously.

Joseph smiles and runs his hand over his whiskers, pretending to consider. He knows a whopper when he hears one. He supposes that’s one positive attribute he took away from the priesthood. “Where’s the rest of your class?”

“My class? They’re uh…oh.”

“Oh.” Joseph nods knowingly, then clears his throat. “Stealing is wrong, son. It’s also against the law.”

“I’m not your son.”

The arms crossed over his little chest tighten protectively around his ribcage, his lower lip jutting out in a sour pout. But there is a wistfulness in the words, and Joseph’s heart gives an answering pang.

“True enough,” Joseph answers.             

That pointy little chin quivers, then jerks up. “Are you gonna call the Sheriff now?” He draws out the words, reluctant.

Joseph smooths his hand over his work apron, thinking.

Sheriff Swan is a close personal friend of his wife’s. She could come in and take over, find out what’s going on with this boy. Within ten minutes, Joseph could make a statement, Miss Swan’s patrol car would pull away with the boy inside, and Joseph would return to running his store. When the clock struck five, he would go home to a hot meal, gaze at the glowing light of the Christmas tree, and tuck himself into bed against Belle’s side.  

He shoots a longing look toward the telephone on his desk. But no, calling the police isn’t the right thing to do. It’ll scare the boy away, harden him toward both Joseph and the law—and that’s the last thing he wants. Somehow, he knows God has intended him to help this child, just as surely as he knows his own name. Still, he has to tread carefully, or he will lose the boy’s trust before it’s even been earned.

“That depends, doesn’t it?”

The boy frowns. “On what?”

“Whether you tell me the truth. If you’re honest, you can save us both the trouble of involving Sheriff Swan or your parents.”

The boy opens his mouth as if to say something, then snaps it shut. Joseph shifts toward the soda fountain, trusting his young charge to follow. “Come with me.”

“Fine.” He drags his feet and huffs an impatient sigh, as though Joseph is the one who has done something wrong.

Joseph bites back a smile at his perturbed little face, and waves a hand toward a stool. He ducks behind the counter, then carefully chooses a sparkling sundae glass. He lifts the cover on the ice cream case. “You, ah, you like ice cream?” he asks, pausing with the scoop in his hand. _Oh, please let the answer be Yes._

“Yeah,” he answers, but the boy eyes the red vinyl seat a with distrusting glare before giving it a spin. He glances around the store as if looking for someone. “The old lady who owned this place before was real mean. Heard she used to poison the kids who came in here.”

Stunned by the bitter claim, Joseph looks up from mounding vanilla bean ice cream into a dish. He almost cracks a stupid joke about serving poison-free desserts, but behind the kid’s suspicious tone lives real fear. And he’s not far from the truth. The store’s previous owner and his old boss, Bedelia Bluementhal, ran the store with an iron fist. Later, she’d been found guilty of accepting bribes from drug companies and selling drugs to children throughout New England. Thanks to the Lord (and the angel Merlin), she was spending the rest of her life behind bars for her crimes.

“She’s gone now,” Joseph confirms. He keeps his voice steady yet gentle, drawing the boy’s attention away from worriedly scanning the aisles, and meeting his eyes. “You don’t have to be scared of her anymore. Sit down.” 

“I ain’t scared, Mister,” the boy scoffs.

The tension in his small, hunched shoulders melts like ice cream softening around the edges of a carton, then he hops onto the stool with an energetic exuberance that only children seem to possess. His eyes remind Joseph of Belle’s favorite blue dinner plates when he sees the sundae, but he doesn’t rush to pick up the spoon. Instead, he gives Joseph a long, searching look.

Joseph doesn’t take offense at the way he runs his eyes over his sharp nose and greying, shoulder-length hair, but continues to hold his gaze, letting the boy look his fill. If he were a gambling man, he’d bet his store and all its inventory that in this kid’s experience, nothing is free.

“It’s okay,” Joseph says softly.

The boy nods, almost imperceptibly, and Joseph smothers another smile when he digs into the sundae with gusto, gulping huge mouthfuls of ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream, and rainbow sprinkles. Melted chocolate dribbles down the side of the glass and puddles on the countertop, and he swipes the goodness up with his fingers and shovels it into his mouth, not missing a drop.

“Good?” Joseph asks as the boy gobbles the ice cream concoction, not really expecting a response. He steps away to shine the chrome fixtures on the fountain, giving him space to enjoy the treat. Instinct tells him the last thing this kid needs is someone watching him eat like he’s some sort of animal in a cage.

Joseph knows the boy is finished when he hears a soft, contented sigh. He turns back toward the counter. “I’m Joseph. What’s your name?”

The boy scrunches up his face as if deciding whether to tell. The remnants of the hot fudge sundae are smeared on his chin, his blonde curls adorably tousled. “It’s Nick.”

Joseph can’t contain a delighted laugh. “Nick! Ah, what a grand name. Especially at Christmastime.”

Curiosity leaps into his eyes when Joseph leans closer, and he drops his voice to a just above a whisper as if sharing a secret. Belle says kids love secrets, and he figures it’s worth a shot. “You know, Saint Nicholas is the protector of children. He always gives in secret, alert to the needs of others, and expects nothing in return. That’s a very special name you have.”

“Really?” Nick worries his lower lip. “What’s a-lert?”

“It means Saint Nick knows what we need even before we think to ask, sometimes before we know ourselves. Just like God.”

Blue eyes fill with tears, and grubby little balled up fists dash them away in angry swipes.

Joseph drops his eyes to the counter to give the boy privacy, a chance to collect himself. He hands him a wet, hot towel scented with lemon, the type fancy restaurants pass out after a meal. Belle’s idea, of course.

Nick mops his face and hands, then slaps the towel back on the counter, now tinged grey and streaked with dirt and chocolate. He sniffles, then picks up the towel again to blow his nose.

When he’s finished, Joseph whisks the soiled towel away and clears his throat. “So,” he begins, keeping his voice low and quiet so as not to attract attention from his staff or other customers, “why don’t you show me what you took?”

Eyes on the floor, Nick unzips his jacket and begins to line items up on the counter with trembling fingers. A red and green fur stocking trimmed in white. Elmer’s glue. A bottle of red glitter. An orange. Peanut butter M&Ms.

They’re trinkets, each item small and inexpensive, except maybe the stocking. Compassion overwhelms Joseph again, along with something else—a strange, tingly sensation he’s never experienced. He braces his hands on either side of the counter, heart tripping over the bizarre emotion.

He absorbs the stillness, waiting for Nick to speak. Other customers have entered the store now and between the thumps of his own heartbeat, Joseph hears the low murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet on the floor, the whirr and ding of the old-fashioned cash register.

Those serious blue eyes move over his face again, wide with appeal.

“It’s Christmas.” The boy gestures at the pile of loot, and Joseph nods, encouraging him to continue.

“I wanted to make a stocking. The sisters hang some up by the fireplace.” He presses his lips together as if fearing he’s already said too much. “But I thought…forget it. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid at all.” Relief floods Joseph, and thanksgiving. A boy who wants a stocking is a boy who hasn’t lost hope. A boy who wants a stocking still believes in the miracle of Christmas.

_The sisters._

Nick lives at the convent. Pieces begin to fall into place.

“So see, you can’t call my parents. I have none.” The words come out in a practiced rush. It's like he’s stood in front of the mirror saying them, reminding himself he belongs to no one.

Joseph picks up the stolen orange and digs into the peel with his thumb, sending a citrus-scented spray across the countertop between them. He separates the fruit and offers a section to Nick.

Nick licks his lips and looks at the segment, hesitating.

The convent takes good care of the children, but special snacks between meals—like a juicy orange in the middle of the morning—are few and far between.

“Go on.” Joseph swallows the lump in his throat and gives what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “There’s no catch. Take it. Growing boys need lots of fruits and vegetables.”

“Orange is my favorite,” Nick mumbles in response, then pops the half-moon into his mouth.

“Mine too.” Joseph eats a piece, then offers the boy another. “Many, many years before you or I were born, Saint Nicholas once knew of a poor man who couldn’t find men to marry his daughters because he didn’t have money. Well Saint Nick, he couldn’t let that stand. He gave all the girls gold, just tossed it through the window. The gold coins landed in their stockings, which were hanging by the fire to dry. That’s one of the reasons we get oranges today. Santa gives them at Christmas as a symbol of the gold that was left in those stockings.”

“Wow. So oranges are like gold.” Nick’s face splits in a gap-toothed grin, dropping his guard for the first time since they met at the front door.

“Something like that.” Joseph grins back, pleased to have wandered onto common ground. Again he finds himself thanking the seminary for grilling him in Church history. “Tell me more about this stocking.”

Nick looks down at the red and green striped sock, the stubborn tightness of his jaw returning. He’s still afraid. Either of being turned in or laughed at, Joseph can’t be sure.

Joseph sighs. “Look, I’m not going to rat you out to the Sheriff, and I’m not calling the convent. You have my word. But trust earns trust. You’ve gotta be straight with me.”

Nick continues to chew his orange with maddening slowness, still saying nothing.

Finally, he swallows the bite and leans forward. “Thought maybe if I had one with my name on it, Santa might come. Last Christmas with Mr. Bailey, he couldn’t find the house.” He looks away. “I’m sorry, Mister. Sorry for stealing. But if Sister Astrid finds out…”

Joseph pinches the bridge of his nose, processing this information. He’s guessing this Bailey guy was the kid’s last foster home, but he doesn’t press for more information. Astrid is a kind, compassionate woman and a dear friend of Belle’s, not to mention a fellow former member of the order. “The name’s Joseph, remember? And you’re forgiven. I won’t tell Miss Astrid about what happened today.”

“Thanks, Mister Joe.” His little body sags in relief.

 _Joe?_ He barks a laugh. “Joe, huh? Guess I can live with that.” No one calls him by a nickname, not even Belle. No one except...Merlin. But the angel is long gone; he hasn’t seen him in well over a year, and doesn’t expect to again.

An idea hits him, and he looks at his watch. “I hear Santa is going to visit the Storybrooke Public Library today, right around lunchtime. Why don’t you go over there and see if you can share your Christmas list? I’ll bet he’s making something for you in his workshop, even now. Ask for Miss Belle, she’s the head librarian.”

Nick sits up straighter and his eyes ignite with hope. “That’s where my class was going today! The library! But I didn’t know Santa was gonna be there.”  
  
Joseph grins, and his chest inflates with pride in his wife and her clever decision to have Santa treat the children to a story before Christmas.

He shuffles to the wall behind the soda fountain, fishes his own grey wool hat out of his coat pocket, then tugs it down over the boy’s shell-pink ears, careful not to cover his eyes. A fringe of blonde bangs peeks out from under the brim. It’s still a little big, but warm enough to keep the winter wind at bay. _“_ If you go now, I bet you can catch Santa and give him your Christmas wishes, but before you leave, I need you to promise me something.”

Nick’s forehead puckers; once again he’s looking for the catch.

Joseph keeps his gaze locked on his, kind yet penetrating. “The hat is yours to keep, and so are these.” He holds up a sturdy, reusable bag containing the once-stolen goods, now freely given, with three extra oranges for good measure. “Promise me the next time you need something from the store, you’ll come to me and ask. No more stealing.” He holds out his right hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yeah.” Nick nods and puts his small hand inside Joseph’s and shakes. “Okay, promise.”

The gentle glide of those small, damp fingers across his callused palm makes his knees wobble. Catching his breath, Joseph watches as Nick zips up his coat, hefts the bag of goodies, then heads for the front door.

“Can I ask you one more thing?” Joseph calls, feeling oddly desperate.

Nick peers over his shoulder with a shrug.  
  
“Why my store?” It’s a stupid question, really, and Joseph isn’t sure what makes him ask. There aren’t many stores in Storybrooke, and the majority of them sit right here on Main Street.

Another shrug. “I like your sign.”

Joseph feels himself smile. The cheery red and white sign was another one of Belle’s improvements when they’d taken ownership of the place.

Nick breaks into a run and charges for the door, the smack of his hands against the glass making the bell jangle merrily. “Bye, Mister Joe! Thanks for the ice cream and stuff!”

Joseph’s smile widens and he waves as Nick’s steps along the snowy sidewalk in the direction of the library throw fresh white powder against the front window.  
  
He thinks about phoning Belle, imagines her sweet laughter on the line as he tells her about his unusual morning and asks her to look out for a curly-haired boy with a crooked smile. But he can’t do that. He made a promise to Nick, and a promise, once broken, can never be made whole.  
  
Closing his eyes, he folds his hands on the counter, still littered with orange peels from the snack they shared. He closes his eyes and prays that whatever Nick’s Christmas wishes are, somehow Saint Nicholas will come through.

###

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome your comments, especially encouragements. Thank you.


End file.
